|Visiting the Manor
||[May. 4th, 2007|07:55 pm]
A Different Gotham
Jim Gordon sighed as he pulled up to the Wayne mansion, still reeling over discovering the true identity of the Batwoman.|
He stopped the car, then picked up the fresh bundle of carnations he'd picked up on the way back from the late shift, going up to the door and lifting his hand to knock, only to suddenly hear an angry scream and then the sounds of a heated argument coming from inside.
Suddenly an older woman Gordon knew as the poor-treating doctor Leslie opened the door suddenly, looking hassled and inviting him inside. He frowned and entered, then started and bolted for the crashing sound coming from a side room that was the opposite direction from the parlor where he'd been invited.
"Yes." She blinked, remembering the thinking she'd done the night before after she'd gotten home and tried to go to sleep, then looked up at him with searching eyes. "How long?"
How long had he felt the way he did?
"Six months after we met," he said, eyes lowered as he offered to help her up and to the couch.
"After we finally got most of the crooked cops exposed." She took his arm and pulled herself up, then turned toward the loveseat so as to not give Clara further cause for alarm.
They had worked together closely on that case, Gordon had even gotten a chance to drive the Batmobile.
"Yeah. After that," he said softly. "Where have all these kids come from?"
"Haven't you read the newspapers?" She smirked slightly, rubbing Ace's head as he hovered protectively and watched the stranger with wary eyes.
"Not those sections. Besides, they aren't true, are they?" he said, looking at her intently.
"Bree is related to me," she said quietly. "But she's not my daughter. Clara and Katalyn are orphans who've wound up here because they didn't have anywhere else to go. I have a son, but at the moment I don't know where he is."
"What happened to him?" Jim said, instantly getting completely and utterly serious.
"I don't know. With the fuss that Linda Luthor made in accusing him of her brother's murder I hope he's far away from here."
She knew that he would have seen that report, that he'd know that she was talking about the young 'Superboy' whose face was still splashed across the television screen and newspapers from time to time.
He paused, then the last bits clicked into place.
"He can't be your son," he frowned deeply.